


Give Us Pause

by elumish



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, or something like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 17:34:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4401059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elumish/pseuds/elumish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are advantages to fucking a werewolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Us Pause

**Author's Note:**

> This is un-betaed as always, so any spelling/grammar/typing mistakes are my fault (and I'm sure there are some).

There are advantages to fucking a werewolf.

\--

Stiles wakes up swinging. It’s a habit he’s gotten into, accidentally, when he wasn’t looking, like how Scott checks in with Kira a few too many times a day and how Liam spends his nights outside of Mason’s house and then sleeps thought lunch and always looks like he’s about to collapse if he closes his eyes for more than a few seconds at a time.

He doesn’t actually realize he does it until his dad tries to wake him and almost gets a black eye for his troubles. And the problem—the worst part, maybe—is that his dad doesn’t look surprised. Upset, scared, but not surprised. Like he’s been expecting it, and this is just finally the time it happens.

So the next night he heads to Derek’s house and blows Derek until it feels like he can’t breathe and then passes out on Derek’s bed, and when he wakes up swinging Derek pins his arms over his head with one hand and presses his other hand to Stiles’s hipbone and just waits for Stiles to stop. And then they lay there, Stiles gasping for breath like he just ran a marathon, until the weight on his chest and the fire in his arms drives him up, out, to try to run until the need to kill someone goes away.

It’s not even like he wants to kill someone, not really, but the urge to hurt, to bite and tear and hit until someone is small and still and silent is sometimes almost overwhelming.

He stops sleeping at home after that, because chances are he can hurt his dad if he tries, and he doesn’t trust his dad to hurt him back if that’s what’s necessary to stop him. Sometimes he stops sleeping altogether; he does one day on, one day off, but then he starts passing out in the middle of school and that puts everyone at risk.

A week into his sleep-avoidance attempt, Lydia accuses him of ignoring the problem, which is ludicrous. The problem is that he’s going to hurt someone if he’s not careful, and he’s dealing with that by being careful. She looks at him like she expected better, and isn’t that just the story of his life.

But then he wakes up with a knife he doesn’t remember going to sleep with poised over Derek’s throat like he’s ready to start cutting, and he decides something needs to change.

So the next day he goes out and buys padded handcuffs from a store three towns over and brings them to Derek’s apartment, setting them up so he can be handcuffed in his sleep without taking up too much sleep or dislocating his shoulders. Though the second is seeming like a viable option if this doesn’t work.

Derek walks into his bedroom that night, stops, and says, “Not that I don’t frequently entertain the idea of getting you to stop moving, but are the handcuffs really necessary?”

Stiles looks up from where he’s fiddling with the key. “They are if you want me not to stab you in my sleep.”

“I’ll heal.”

That’s not the point. “I could _stab_ you. I came here because I knew you wouldn’t hesitate to stop me if it meant hurting me, but if that’s not the case—”

Derek takes a step towards him. “Not hesitate? Do you think I like hurting the people I sleep with?”

How has this gotten so off-track? The handcuffs are a simple and obvious solution; there’s no reason for Derek to be freaking out over them. “No, but I know you. You’re pragmatic, and if that means you need to get a little rough keeping me from slitting your throat, you’ll do it. And you won’t even need to, because I’ll be handcuffed.” He rattles the closest cuff for emphasis.

“No, you won’t be.” Derek strides towards him, looking pissed, and maybe Stiles misjudged something along the way. He had thought Derek was okay with him basically moving in, and besides, Derek gets blow jobs and hand jobs and general nakedness with another person form it, but maybe attaching something to his bed gives that gives an indication of permanence—even though this is seriously only until he can stop trying to hurt people when he wakes up—is going too far. Which is totally fair. Derek never signed up for a long-term gig sleeping with the local nutjob.

And then Derek is ripping the handles off the bed with his bare hands, and what the fuck? “Hey. I’m going to need those.”

“No, you’re not.” Derek finishes pulling one of them off and drops it, tangled wreck of metal it now is, on the bed before going to work on the second one.

“What do you mean, no I’m not? I need something to keep me from hurting you—or anyone else.”

Derek pulls the second handcuff off and picks the first one off the bed and starts across the room, and Stiles trails after him because what else is he going to do.

It doesn’t seem like Derek is going to answer, so Stiles presses, “What do you mean, I’m not going to need them?”

Derek turns on him, mangled metal clutched in one hand, and Stiles is so surprised he almost walks into him. “I mean I’m not letting you chain yourself up. I mean I will keep you from hurting anyone. I mean these”—he raises the handcuffs—“aren’t going to be used.”

“Well, now they’re not.”

Derek lets out a low growl, tossing the handcuffs off to the side where they clatter against the concrete and skitter to a halt, but Stiles can’t look to see where they are, because Derek is approaching him, teeth bared but human.

“Derek?”

Derek’s hands close over his hips, and then he hoists him up, throwing Stiles over his shoulder and carrying him through the apartment. It’s jarring, and Stiles is exhausted, and he can’t track where they are, can’t tell one area of grey concrete from another, and so it’s startling for the ceiling to suddenly be passing across his field of vision, and then he’s on the bed and Derek is on top of him, hands bracketing Stiles’s head.

“If anything is going to be holding you down, it’s me.”

Stiles blinks at him, because, what? “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that you bought handcuffs when you already have someone stronger than them in bed with you. Someone who would be much better at not hurting you than some metal.”

“What about when you sleep?” When he sleeps and Stiles finds a way to hurt him because he has too much faith in his own abilities to protect himself properly.

Derek stares him in the eye for a moment, until Stiles wants to look away because God only knows what Derek is seeing, an then without warning his entire body drops on Stiles, driving the breath from his lungs. Except it’s not his entire body; Derek’s legs are tangled over his, his hands pressing Stiles’s down on the bed, but his torso is angled so it’s off of Stiles enough that Stiles can breathe, his head on the bed next to Stiles’s. And he’s hard.

Stiles squirms, trying to get his hands free so he can do something about that hardness, but Derek just presses down harder, tangling his fingers with Stiles’s. And then he lets out a low growl, mouth—but not teeth—closing over Stiles’s jugular.

“Derek.”

“Sleep.” The word is growled against his skin, sending vibrations up his neck, and oh look, he’s hard now too. And wow, Derek against him like this feels really good. So good he starts moving, just a little, him against Derek. “Damn it, Stiles.”

Stiles grins against Derek’s shoulder. “You want me to stop?”

“I want you to sleep.” And then, in a move too sudden and too fast for Stiles to follow, Derek flips him so he’s on his stomach with the length of Derek’s body pressed against his back. Which doesn’t particularly incentivize him to sleep at the moment.

His fingers aren’t twisted around Derek’s anymore, so he reaches behind him and grabs Derek’s dick, and the angle is super awkward, but Derek’s sharp exhale against the back of his neck tells him he’s doing something right. “Come on, Derek, you’d rather sleep than do this?”

“I want _you_ to sleep.” His teeth close, for just a second, over the back of his neck, and Stiles moans against the pillow his face is smashed into. “So when we pick this up later, you’ll be awake enough to enjoy it.”

“I am awake.” And he squeezes, just a little, to prove his point.

Fine then,” Derek says, his voice low and heat-tight, and his hand closes against Stiles’s wrist, and he’s not sure if it’s a capitulation or the start of a new argument. “You’ll be awake and not smelling like fear. I’ll keep you safe, Stiles. I promise. Just relax.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about.”

Derek snorts, pulling Stiles’s hand away and down so it’s against the bed, his thumb stroking Stiles’s palm. “Of course it’s not, because you have no sense of self-preservation. Relax, Stiles, and get some sleep. You haven’t said anything stupid in days, and we’re all worried.”

Between the weight of his back and the thumb on his hand, Stiles falls asleep still smiling.

\--

There are advantages to sleeping with a werewolf.


End file.
